Waiting For You
by Rapier-of-Red
Summary: It starts on a Tuesday, an innocuous little day in the middle of April. Funny that the whole world began to fall apart not on a specific, or even important, day. AmCan AU angst Further summary/warnings inside.


A/N: Hi there. This story is pretty huge and I'm sorry for that. I'd like to dedicate it to a woman named Annie. Thank you for helping me through the worst time of my life. It was an honour to share my hospital room with you. I'm sorry we couldn't both get better. You've impacted my life and I pray you find peace.

Warning: **Angst**, illness. It's a hard topic, close to my heart, so I hope I did it justice

Pairing: Am/Can (is that surprising?)

Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine and neither is the song A thousand years which was my inspiration.

Without further ado, let's get you to this monster of a story.

Waiting For You

The funny thing about life is that it likes to kick you when you're down. It likes to take your hopes and your dreams and laugh in your face as it holds them just above your reach. It's cruel and it's twisted and just when you find something that makes you think _ha! Take that, life I win! _It steals your heart.

It starts on a Tuesday, an innocuous little day in the middle of April. Funny that the whole world began to fall apart not on some specific or even important day.

(It's just like Matthew, Alfred will think later, to start something so serious on a day that no one will ever remember).

They're out doing groceries; Alfred is pushing the cart (and riding on the back) as Matthew recites things from a list. They plunk the items into the cart with all the grace and care of twenty-four year old boys (which isn't much, mind you).

It starts with Alfred not paying attention to where he's going, turning too sharply and ultimately whacking Matthew in the hip with the cart.

"Al! Geez, watch it, please?" Matthew bites, cradling his quickly bruising hip. Alfred has the decency to look ashamed, biting his lip and mumbling an apology that Matthew doesn't hear. Matthew has lifted a part of his shirt and is too busy staring at the deep bruise that has already spread with something akin to confusion. He shrugs it off and keeps walking, fingers wrapping around Alfred's at the last minute; it speaks: _I forgive you, stupid._

Alfred's staring the shirt that covers his lover's bruise, worriedly, but he brushes that worry aside and thinks, _oh well, one time occurrence, right_?

Wrong.

* * *

Alfred stretches his arms above his head, legs pulling taut against the bed-sheets as he yawns. He rubs his eyes after and turns to look at his boyfriend, curled into his bare side. His sleep ridden eyes widen when they catch the bruises smattered along Matthew's body. Had they been that rough last night?

What concerns him, though, is the deep purple bruise that is still prominent on his lover's hip despite being over a week old now. With a quick inspection he notes, with growing trepidation, that there are bruises everywhere. Down both arms, along his sides, the backs of his ankles, deep purples and greys and light brown colours that mar his porcelain skin. He brushes his fingers lightly over the bruises, eyebrows creased into a worried frown. Is it something serious? Should he be worried?

He caresses Matthew's face and lies back down next to him, concern prevalent in his baby blues. _Maybe Matthew has an iron deficiency_, Alfred thinks, he's read that people bruise much easier when they do. He reminds himself to buy some iron pills on his way home from work tomorrow and closes his eyes again, snuggling close.

An iron deficiency, that's all it is.

* * *

Matthew takes the pills every day with a grimace, swallowing pills had never been easy for him. He chokes it down with water and smiles crookedly at Alfred, shrugging his shoulders. His sleeves are long today, have been long now for a few days, since Alfred first brought the pills home. He's hoping to cover his skin, cover the fact that the pills aren't working.

"How are you feeling, babe? The pills working?" Alfred asks, held tilted back over the ledge of the couch as he waits for Matthew to return to the living room. Matthew bites his lip and turns to put the cup he used for water in the sink, rinsing it and rinsing his guilt for his next lie.

"Yeah, Al, like a charm. I'm sure it's just a lack of iron," he replies, coming back to the couch and flopping down.

"I love you, Matt. I've loved you for a thousand years," Alfred mumbles and Matthew rolls his eyes, fond smile gracing his lips. This is familiar territory, a conversation long rehearsed. Something they can both control.

Alfred pretends not to feel Matthew wince when he settles back down on the couch, feet tucked under himself. Matthew pretends not to see the accusation in Alfred's eyes, the trepidation upon which there is the cusp of further understanding, an understanding that neither of them are sure of; that neither of them are sure they want to understand.

* * *

It was easy to believe the lies about healing bruises. It was harder to believe these lies when the nosebleeds started. Another innocuous little day, sunlight bright but wind cold, and they are messing around outside in their backyard when Matthew first notices the blood. His eyes widen and he presses his hand to his nose reflexively. Alfred tilts his head at him as Matthew excuses himself to run inside.

Alone outside, the wind is colder than the heat of the sun and Alfred suddenly feels very alone, very afraid, and extremely lost. In all his years knowing Matthew, which arguably is _a lot_, he has never seen the man get a nosebleed. A nervous feeling in his gut and mind tries to immediately connect this nosebleed to the still prominent splatter of bruises along Matthew's body. But the part of him that is afraid, the part of him that is dense, blocks out this connection.

These are two purely unrelated events, obviously. There is nothing wrong with Matthew and there is definitely nothing wrong with Alfred.

An iron deficiency, seasonal allergies, maybe. But something serious? No, not ever.

* * *

"Hey, Matt, babe, are you okay? This is like, your fifth nosebleed today. Are you allergic to something?" Alfred asks from the bed.

Alfred hears Matthew begin to respond before he gags and Alfred can hear him retching from behind the closed door of their washroom. Alfred throws back the covers and rushes into the bathroom, swooping down to rub his lover's back and hold back his hair.

When both the vomiting and the nosebleed end, Alfred carries Matthew back to the bed and notices with growing anxiety that he feels lighter than he usually does. He thinks of asking Matthew to go to a doctor but brushes the thought aside for the moment.

The moment is short lived, however, when Alfred awakes a few hours later to find his lover wreaking havoc on the bed, thrashing and absolutely _drenched_ in sweat. His body is cold to the touch but his face is flushed and he's shaking uncontrollably.

(And it's this moment, this ethereal image, Alfred with have burned into his mind for years to come. The moment that anxious trepidation gave way to terrified realization. The image of Matthew, sweet, porcelain Matthew, writhing and _sickly_, _he's sick isn't he. _The exact scene where Alfred first realized the beginning of the end).

Something is wrong.

* * *

The drive to the hospital the next day is painfully quiet; both too scared to voice their concerns, both too afraid of the consequences of their thoughts. Alfred has one hand on the wheel and one wrapped snugly around the clammy hand of his violet-eyed counterpart. He whispers prayers under his breath and notices that Matthew is on the verge of tears.

The doctor immediately takes Matthew into a room upon arrival and Alfred is left standing in the waiting room, lonely and scared. He tries to sit and read but his nerves keep him from paying attention. He paces back and forth and chews his lip into oblivion, wringing his hands together. Do standard tests usually take this long? Are there complications?

The nurses take pity on him and offer him idle chatter, attempting to ease his worries by telling him that the processes do indeed take time. It helps, somewhat.

He can't help but think of all the things that could go wrong. Ignorance is bliss and he's not so sure he wants to know what is wrong.

Matthew comes out a few hours later, looking a little worse for wear (but still breathing) and smiles a little dimly at Alfred.

"I won't know the test results until a week from now," he whispers, falling into Alfred's open arms. His whole body is quaking. The older of the two takes it upon himself to be the hero he has so often proclaimed that he is and grins brightly despite his constricting heart.

"I bet it's going to be fine, Matt! You're just dealing with the flu, or something."

They'd never stop to think what that 'or something' might be. With a quick kiss to Matthew's temple, he leaves to go find the doctor.

* * *

"It's best to assume the worst, Mr. Jones," the doctor answers, eyes tired and downcast.

"What is the worst, doctor?" Alfred asks, nervous system clenching in an uncomfortable bundle.

The old doctor shakes his head, eyes falling closed.

* * *

"I love you so much, Matthew, thousands of years, remember?" Alfred whispers, pressing kisses all over his lover's tense, distraught body. He pretends that their hands are trembling, that they're both the spit of perfect health and that Matthew hasn't dropped at least twenty pounds. He expects Matthew to laugh at the saying, roll his eyes like he usually does, but this time is different. This time his violet eyes close tight and his breath goes out in a sob-like rush.

"Stop saying that. Stop it, because I don't want to have to say it back. I love you now, okay?" The bitterness and anguish in his tone is enough to make Alfred pull away. He's staring into the hurt, angry eyes of his boyfriend with confusion.

"Matt, what—"

"Never mind. Let's just go to sleep, okay? Please?" and Alfred is floored, hurt inside and very, very confused. What did he say? Despite his confusion, he lays back down beside Matthew and opens his arms. And, for all his show of anger, Matthew surges into him and holds tightly.

"Hold me, please? The results are tomorrow and I want to remember right now," he whispers, gripping the creases of Alfred's t-shirt. Where before lied muscle tone akin to Alfred's own now lied thinner flesh, shaking with each inhale. Strong hands held with a weak grasp on his shirt and a weak grasp on his situation.

"You're going to be fine, Matthew. I love you," Alfred replies, cupping his lover's cheek.

"Hope so. Love you, too."

* * *

The room is silent, deathly silent (_No, _Alfred mutters, _don't think like that) _you could hear a pin drop, and Matthew's grip on Alfred's hand falters.

"What? No, surely there's been a mistake," he yells, turning to Alfred in disbelief. But for once Alfred isn't looking at him.

No, his eyes are wide and locked on the test results the doctor had pushed across the small table. Words like _malignant_ and _options for prolonged living_ standing out among the professional, synchronized font. The words are there; in perfect, neat lines but the words make no sense because there is no way that Matthew can have leukemia.

"I'm afraid there is no mistake, Mr. Williams. Now, to talk about your options…"

The doctor continues but Matthew and Alfred are staring at each other in horror.

* * *

"Chemotherapy is going to work, Matt, don't worry. It'll work and things will be fine and everything will go back to normal, just you wait and see," Alfred consoles, arms wrapped around his sobbing lover's shoulders.

"And if it doesn't, Alfred? Am I just supposed to be alright with that fact that I'm fucking dying? I'm only twenty-four! This isn't fair!" he pushes himself from Alfred's arms and punches the wall, bruising his hand and denting the wall in one fell swoop.

"You're not dying, Matt! Dammit, don't say that!" he yells, reaching to grab the younger blonde's bleeding hand. Matthew rips his arm away and pulls on his hair. Looks more distressed when strands come out with his clenched hands.

"Shut up! I'm _dying_, Alfred. That's what cancer means! I'm dying and nobody can do a fucking thing about it. Oh, they'll try, but all that'll happen is that I'll lose my hair from the radiation and die because it couldn't stop the cells from deteriorating," he screams, face flushed in anger, frustrated tears falling harshly from reddening violet eyes. And Alfred can't move because for once in his life, the golden boy has nothing to say to counter that.

Matthew turns and storms from the room, slamming the door behind him. In their shared bedroom, all alone, Alfred begins to feel like Matthew's already gone. He doesn't let anyone know, but he cries that night. He cries for himself and he cries for Matthew and he cries for the things he's now uncertain of.

Matthew returns a few hours later, wrists bruised and knuckles bleeding, and falls into Alfred, mentally and emotionally exhausted. The "I'm sorry" is never spoken between them but the long kiss and the embrace they share for the rest of the night speaks the words for them.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this, Mattie?" Alfred asks, razor in hand. Matthew bites his chapped lips, running his fingers through his thinning waves and nods.

"I want to be in control of it falling," he answers with certainty.

Alfred turns the razor on without another word and shears the hair off Matthew's head. He watches blond curls fall to the floor and thinks that his lover is so strong, so beautiful. He makes a resolution in that moment.

Once Matthew's hair is completely gone, he turns the razor on himself. Matthew watches with shock as Alfred shaves himself bald, too.

"Al…what are you doing? Now we both look weird…" he mutters, eyebrows raised. All Alfred can do it laugh, laugh until his sides hurt.

"You're gorgeous, babe, hair or no hair. And like hell I'm letting you go through this alone. I'm right here beside you, all the way," he responds, megawatt smile in place. Matthew lights up in a way he hasn't since the news of his illness and Alfred feels at ease.

"It's cold," he whines and Matthew smacks him in the arm and for a minute it's just like old times. But then Matthew hunches over into coughing and _no it's not like old times at all._

* * *

"Is there anything I can do, doctor?" Alfred asks, hands clasped tightly.

"Be supportive."

* * *

The chemo is going well, Matthew is tired, exhausted, but he's feeling better. He's laughing more and he's regaining a bit of weight. They've gone out to the park and they've even gone to the indoor ice rink once or twice in the past few weeks. Alfred's hopes are high and Matthew's are beginning to rise too.

He's been feeling better for almost a month which is why it's such a complete and utter shock that Alfred comes home from work to find him passed out in the kitchen, in a puddle of his own vomit. He's beside himself with fear as he reaches down to check for a pulse. When he finds one he slumps, a little, tension rushing from his body.

He drives the unconscious Matthew to the hospital. The setting sun filtering in through the windows does nothing to hide the absolute paleness of Matthew's skin. And Alfred can't deny it, here it is, Matthew is sick and possibly…possibly dying.

His hands clench on the wheel and he turns his eyes resolutely from his lover's prone form.

* * *

The chemotherapy isn't taking anymore. The doctors are upping the dosage of Matt's medication and upping the chemo sessions but it's not working. They can't explain why, but it isn't.

The doctors explain that they'll keep trying but sometimes it doesn't work. Sometimes the patient's body rejects the chemotherapy. It does absolutely nothing to soothe either of them and the hole in the pit of Alfred's heart grows deeper. What if Matthew dies?

They barely make it through the door before Alfred has his arms wound around Matthew. They fall to the ground in the entryway, clinging for dear life. They press and claw at each other, hoping it'll be enough to make sure they're never torn apart.

"You're not going to die, Matt. I love you, remember? Thousands of years, Matthew," he tries to sound brave, strong, but the words come out in a begging, pleading tone. Matthew goes tense, ramrod straight. He untangles himself from his lover's arms and takes off through the house.

Alfred hears a door slam before he loses it and knocks over the entryway table. He throws a vase at the wall and yells and screams at every higher power he knows. It's not fucking fair, he thinks. It's not fair.

He's lost in his own anguish so he misses Matthew's wailing sobs from across the house.

* * *

"Matt—" He croaks; and it's a broken sound, clipped and trailing, as he presses his forehead to the door alongside his shaking palms. "Matt, pl_ease_, please, open the door."

Silence from the other side of the bathroom door only reassures the mounting fear in his chest, seizing and gripping his rapidly beating heart. "Matthew, baby, _please._"

His voice is quavering, cracking on every other syllable, desperate and aching.

He hears something, at least, a soft shuffling movement as Matthew finally, _finally, _responds to his calls. But then that's it. It's over as quick as it begins.

"Mattie?" he ventures, voice soft but the underlying tone of – _please dear God let him answer me just answer me so I know he's okay please—_ terror is predominant.

All is silent until two words shatter the ethereal quiet and, ultimately, Alfred Jones' heart.

"Go away."

Alfred's body deflates against the door, the strength kicked out of his actions with two small, miserable words. His breathing is ragged and all he wants to do is reach through the wall and pull his undoubtedly terrified lover into his arms. But he can't, he _can't_ because –_ why won't he let me in, let me in let me help you Matthew, babe, I love you please— _Matthew won't open the door.

The three inches of wood between them feels like a growing chasm, like he's already lost Matthew.

* * *

"Is there any other way to make it work, doctor? Please, something, _anything,_" Alfred pleads.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jones."

* * *

In the weeks that follow, Matthew gets too weak to be left at home. The doctors suggest that he be checked into the hospital.

The house feels too threatening, too large and empty without Matthew's laughter. Alfred stares at his boyfriend's side of the bed with tears running silently down his cheeks. He curls around Matt's pillow and pretends that everything is normal again. It, surprisingly (or not), doesn't help at all.

Every day there are new machines hooked up to Matthew's thinning form. It scares them both but they never talk about them. Every day Alfred loses another bit of himself and every day Matthew pretends that he's feeling better. But lies only go so far.

Matthew feels it coming before it happens. Feels it edging into his body and mind and thinks _how can I ever be ready for this? _That night, he asks Alfred to stay at the hospital with him. Says, _I'm lonely without you here, _means, _oh_, _you'll be so lonely without me here. _

Alfred feels the last bits of his heart crumble but nods none-the-less.

* * *

"You can't die on me, Mattie, you _can't._ I've loved you for a thousand years, Matthew, what's a few more?" Alfred whispers, hands shaking around the thin, fragile hands of his lover. The veins in Matthew's wrists are prominent underneath his sickly skin; pallor waning.

"You've only –" his sentence is broken up by racking coughs that shake his ever thinning body, dim violet eyes watering in the force of his coughing. Alfred's eyes are burning, tears locked behind his pride and concern, desperately wanting to spill. But he can't cry, no, not when Matthew is so broken. Crying means he's accepting the situation (the apparent inevitable).

_It's not fair_, he thinks, rubbing his lover's back. The room is silent save from Matthew's heart-wrenching coughs, Alfred's stilted breathing, and the hum and beep of the medical machinery. It's dark now; the sun has set and how funny, how ironic, that the sun sets when the light of Alfred's life is fading right in front of his eyes. When Matthew reigns in his coughs, he turns to look at Alfred and tries again.

"You've only known me for twenty-four years. T-that's hardly…hardly a-..a thousand," the words come out hoarse and slurred, stuttered and frayed at the edges, (_like our life_, Alfred adds in his head).

Alfred takes Matthew's hands again, presses them to his lips and wills away the knot in his throat, wills himself to speak without throwing himself to the floor and screaming at every higher power he's ever heard of _because this isn't fair it isn't._

Be brave.

"So? That's a technicality," he laughs hollowly, smile shaking around the edges, bitten raw in anxiety and desperation, "that hardly stops me, Mattie." The lights from the machinery do nothing to hide the ghost-like quality of Matthew, (Matt, _Mattie) _they seem to accentuate the fact that chemotherapy _failed_, dipping into hollows of his skin, and making him seem unreachable already.

The more he thinks, the harder it is to hold in his tears, breath quickening to sobs choked back. Matthew, with gentle eyes, lifts one hand from his golden boy's desperate grasp and runs it through the strands of Alfred's returning honeyed hair. His smile is sad and accepting, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"You're so brave," he whispers to Alfred, hand running down to cup his lover's quivering cheek.

And Alfred breaks; one tear rolls past his defenses; then another, and another.

"_Mattie,_" he sobs, grasping hold of the cold hand pressed to his cheek, "you can't go, please, you can't leave me here alone. I love you, _l love you –"_

Matthew shushes him softly, resolutely, "I've loved you for a thousand years, too, Al."

Alfred makes an anguished noise ("_no, no _don't,_ please")_, sob scraping its way from his throat as he barks out acrid laughter. He's shaking his head, he can't do this, can't lose his best friend, his confidant, the light of his life.

He can't lose Matthew.

Matthew: the boy who pushed him in the mud in first grade and then brought him home to apologize. Matthew, the boy who bandaged his scrapes when he was feeling a little too daring. Matthew: who so quickly became the centre of his universe; his best friend. Matthew: the boy who held his awkwardly sweating hand when he told him that he maybe wanted to be more than friends. Matthew, the boy he's loved for as long as he can remember; for months, for lifetimes, for a thousand years.

This wonderful, beautiful man who has been a rock and a salvation point in Alfred's life since he was old enough to toddle on two legs. How can he ever live without him by his side?

Alfred's sobs echo in the emptiness of the still, dark, hospital room. "I want to love you for a thousand _more_, Matt."

Matthew's breath hitches and he's crying too, has been for a while now, but he's too exhausted to wipe them away. It isn't fair, he thinks, that he won't be able to spend even one more year (one more week; day?) with Alfred. He's trying, he is, but – is it not enough? – chemo wasn't working. He wants to crack open his heart and show Alfred how much he loves him (_loves _him_) _and tell him how badly he wants his unattainable wish to come true. But he settles for;

"Healthy people don't even…even live that long," his words are blurring at the edges, total emotional and physical exhaustion taking hold of him. Sights and sounds are dulling, it's coming, it's coming and _no he's not ready yet. _One thousand years falling apart into one thousand days, one thousand minutes, (one thousand seconds? Is that all there is left?)

Alfred's eyes widen as Matthew's begin to fall. He's not ready for this. He'll _never be_ ready for something like this. Is this the last time he'll see the violet eyes that captured his soul? The grief and panic he feels simultaneously is enough to make him crack in two and bleed out right next to his dying lover. But…if this is to be their last moments, he can't let himself be weak. No, he can't.

Be strong.

"They don't live that long, huh?" he starts, voice nudging into hysterics, taking Matthew's sunken, tired, beautiful ("You're so beautiful, Matthew." "Stop, Al, you're embarrassing me!") face in his trembling hands, thumbs brushing the tears away as they pour. "That's because they didn't have you to love."

He leans in desperately, presses a wet kiss to his cold lips and prays ("_Fuck you! Fuck, why are you taking him from me! It's not fair, it's not fair, take _me—"), and pleads that he won't have to say goodbye.

"…Al...fred…I l-love _you_" Matthew whimpers, hands clutching the ones on his face. He can feel the world slipping; he stops seeing Alfred's anguished, heart-broken face and he can no longer hear the machinery, the steady beep-beep…..beep.

Matthew's eyes close and Alfred's whole world goes dark.

* * *

It's a bright day in July, the water is refreshingly cold on their sun-warmed bodies and they're laughing so hard that Alfred's afraid his ribs might crack. He dunks Matthew under the water and gets a kick in the side in retaliation and all he thinks is _this is perfect._

When they're calming down, lying on the beach in the setting sun, Matthew watches Alfred and Alfred watches the sky fight for a few more hours of daylight. Matthew reaches his hand over and curls it around Alfred's fingers. The answering smile he gets nearly stops his heart. Alfred sits up and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, face turning red in embarrassment. Matthew's goes red too and he laughs. This is right, this is perfect, this is what he's always been waiting for. He's waited fifteen years to be able to hold Alfred as close as he's always wanted to.

They're staring at each other in a sort of awe, wondering simultaneously _how could I have gone so long denying this feeling. _

"Matt, call me crazy but, it's like I've loved you for a thousand years, you know?" Alfred mumbles, breath rushing out in wonder, like he's discovered the biggest secret of them all. Matthew knows the feeling, but he laughs and shakes his head.

"You _are_ crazy, Al."

Alfred scoffs, rolling over to pin his best friend (boyfriend?) to the thin blanket beneath them.

"Tell me you don't feel the same," he whispers, brushing their lips together. And Matthew wants to answer yes, of course I feel the same, but he just rolls his eyes.

"I love you, yeah, but I don't know if it's been for a thousand years!"

Alfred smiles at the first declaration and then mock-frowns and asks, "Well, when will you be sure that you've loved me for a thousand years?"

Matthew takes a moment to think of his response, nose scrunched up cutely in thought and Alfred can't help the beating of his heart and the warmth he feels all over. I love you, he thinks, _I love you._

"Who knows? Maybe I'll have a huge moment of clarity on my death bed and I'll realize I have loved you for a thousand years, too, no matter how ludicrous that seems," Matthew finally answers, eyes sparkling in mirth at the look on the face of his blue eyed saviour.

"Well then, in that case, I don't want to know!" Alfred responds, pressing in closer, laying his forehead against Matthew's collarbone. Matthew makes a hum, in questioning, a soft 'continue with your thought please,' as he runs his fingers through the golden strands of Alfred's hair.

"It's easy, Matt! I don't want to know if you've loved me a thousand years if it means you're dying before me!"

They kiss again and it tastes like summer sun, shared promises, forever and a day.

"Alfred, you don't have to worry. I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

"So, that's it, then, Doctor?"

"Yes, Mr. Jones, that's it."


End file.
